To hw, from sh
by Jones573
Summary: River Song visits a friend from her past, to convince him to live for his future.


She looked up when she heard that box of her husband's landing in her cell. She pulled the cuff of her sleeve up to her eyes, wiping away the dampness on her cheeks.

"Hello, sweetie," he smirked. He crouched behind her, and wrapped his tweed-clad arms around her waist. "Up for an adventure?"

"Sounds like fun," she smiled up at his grinning face. "But maybe not today." She folded the papers in her hand into a little square, and tucked them into her jacket pocket. "I need to visit a friend."

"Will this be an interesting friend?" He was fiddling with the controls, entering the coordinates River had given him. "This isn't another one of the… strippers from the moon? I haven't recovered from the last one…" He frowned slightly, and tweaked his bowtie uncomfortably.

River grinned widely. "You're just jealous that she was hogging me the whole time!"

"Well, you're _my _wife, after all," he said indignantly.

"Not at the time, I wasn't," she refuted. She sighed. "No, this is a different kind of friend. A very good one, in a lot of trouble, if I'm right."

"And are you right?"

"Well, I had him send me this letter," she said, patting her pocket sadly. "He was one of my only friends in high school. Good guy. Odd guy."

"You went to high school? Sans Amy?"

"Different life-time. I hope he recognizes me, different face and all. But he's quite astute, and I reckon I could pass as an older version of then-me."

The Tardis landed, screeching slightly. "Would it kill you to figure out the breaks?"

"Not so long as you keep bossing me around," he responded slyly, kissing the top of her curls as he opened the door for her. "Will you need my help? Or just my transport?"

"Your transport, mostly. I'd love if you two got along, but it's rather unlikely. Might be best if you shut those lips. And, uh, ix-nay on the travel through time and space business. We'd never get any peace if he found out."

* * *

Where was it? He was rummaging through his dressers in a maniacal fashion. God, if Mycroft had sent that _unbearable _woman to steal his drugs, he was going to become an only child at a late stage in life, he swore to himself.

There was a knock on the door. "Go away," he shouted brusquely from the overturned kitchen. "I told you Lestrade, it was the bloody garbage man, you know I'm right." He flipped over the table, searching underneath the base. _Where, where, where!_

"It's not Lestrade, Sherly. It's me."

He dropped the kettle he'd been searching on the burner, and the spout broke off.

"Miss Williams," he said, sweeping the door open. He paused when he looked in her face. "I'm sorry, I was mistaken."

The door shut in her face.

"How rude," the Doctor whispered in her ear. "Is he always like that?"

"Yes," she said. "Almost always."

"Put the sword down, Sherlock." The man on the other side of the door looked at the hilt in his hand. How did she know he kept a sword in the umbrella stand, hidden in the large one his old friend had given him for that express purpose.

"You got that suggestion from visiting from my flat, remember?"

"What have you done to her? If you want my help, she needs to stay alive. Understood?" His voice was level and intimidating, but it had little effect.

"Oh, you idiot," the woman at Sherlock's door sighed. "You really think anyone could get the upperhand on me, besides yourself?"

"Flattery will get you nowhere," he cautioned. But he peeked through the eyehole and peered at the magnified eyes looking back at him. They were her eyes, he couldn't deny it.

"What have you done to your hair? And your face? You look terrible," he chided.

There was muffled protest in a man's voice, and he heard a foot getting stepped on. He unlocked the door, and pulled it open slowly. He was engulfed in a hug, a pile of blond curls resting against the nape of his neck. A man stood in the hallway, looking uncomfortable and fiddling his suspenders.

They shook hands hesitantly. "I'm the husband," the man said.

"I'm the friend," Sherlock said shortly. "I suppose you might as well come in as well."

"My lord, Sherlock, what have you done to this place?"

He shut the door behind the Doctor. "Oh, you know," he muttered. "This and that."

She turned slowly and narrowed her eyes at him. "You've been using." It wasn't a question, and he glared back at her as he sat in his chair, folding his hands under his chin.

"And you've been disappearing from the world, Harmony Williams. It takes skill, to leave not even a trail for _me _to follow."

She sighed. "I had good reason."

"I'm sure you did," he shot back. "And it's been good for you, hasn't it? Traveling a lot, marrying a man who clearly has trouble tying his shoes. Found your parents, I assume? Or at least the graves, since they've been dead in New Yori for years."

The Doctor looked down at his well-laced boots, that River had tied for him. "But I've been-"

"Please," Sherlock sighed. "Look at the laces. Obviously worn out in the wrong places, and the top eyelets are far more unused than the bottoms. Like you've just been tucking the laces into the tops of the boots because you're too lazy to do otherwise."

He rolled his eyes. "Make us a cup of tea, would you?"

River pinched at her nose. "Would it kill you to figure out how to act nice?"

"No so long as you keep bossing me around," he shot back.

* * *

"Remind me again why I need to be blind-folded with my own scarf," Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Because there are things in my life, even you cannot comprehend," she answered.

"I highly doubt that."

"I'm sure you do. Least I let you walk down the stairs first."

"Please. Like I couldn't walk them in my sleep."

"Have you been?"

There was silence. "Sometimes I don't know where I am. How I got there, or what I'm doing. The cure for cancer is possibly sitting in my fridge right now, and I haven't got a clue how I made it."

She clasped a hand on his shaking shoulder. "Why are you doing this to yourself? Tell me."

"Because it bores me," he droned. "Life. Even the cases. They're not fun anymore. Even baiting Mycroft, it's lost its appeal."

"So you've turned to drugs."

"Well, you weren't there, were you?" He snapped slightly, and she winced.

"No one else can keep up with me," he sighed.

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

He smirked at her from beneath his blindfold.

"Well. You could never _quite_ reach conclusions as fast as I did, but at least you understood those conclusions." There was an unspoken second inferral. _And least you believed me. At least you could pretend to understand when I needed you to. _

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I do not ask you to forgive me. I just ask you to consider the future. To consider the people that love you, and will love you."

He scoffed as she pulled his dark blue scarf from around her eyes. He immediately whipped around to see what she'd been keeping from him. Trees, trees, graves, trees, and a large box in the distance, bright blue, like the one she used to sketch-

"The bigger picture, Mister Holmes, you're missing it," River interrupted.

"Graves. You've brought me to a cemetery."

"Astute as ever." Harmony Williams, was one of the few people (only, maybe) who he didn't question. He may not understand at the moment, but he had complete faith he would eventually. Her mysteries had more layers than elementary robberies and murders, and within a year of knowing her, he knew those mysteries would pay off in the long run. If he was careful and observant, she would eventually slip up. So he played her game.

"Why a cemetery?"

"There's someone I want you to meet," she said carefully. "Someone important. He will be there for you, the way I couldn't. He'll understand you, in ways you don't. Someone who can keep up with you, will _want_ to keep up with. And he will never, ever stop believing in you." He raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"Have you got me a dog, Harm?"

She scowled. "I'm trying to help you, _Sherley,_" she said, trading one unfortunate nickname for another.

"I don't need help."

"You are lost, even if you can't seen it. Your body is withering away; how many times have you elected to _not _go to the hospital, just this month? Even when you've overdosed?"

She was met with silence. "Your life has meaning, Sherlock. To all of us, and especially to this man. You are going to sacrifice everything you know, for this man. For your friends. For the people you care about, and the people who care about you."

"Nobody cares about me," he bristled. _Sacrifice his life? How did she know that?_

"They will," she said, leading him by the arm. "You will change lives, as surely as they will change yours."

A man was standing next to a grave, a dozen yards away. "Get closer," she said, nudging his shoulder forward. "Don't be seen, don't say anything. Just listen."

Sherlock approached cautiously, and listened.

"You told me once that you weren't a hero. There were times I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human... human being that I've ever known," the man was saying, a hitch in his voice.

Really? Harmony thought this man, so emotional, crying over some long-deceased relative, would be important to himself, Sherlock Holmes?

"One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."

It took a lot to make the jaw of the world's only consulting detective, hang open, but this did it. He calculated quickly: the number of Sherlocks in London, who would have been buried recently (based on the shine of the headstone), who Harmony Williams would concern herself with. And he came up with only one probable answer- Himself.

He stared at the man, his face aged far beyond his own. Afghanistan or Iraq, he wondered? Who was this man, to be attending what he assumed (how was he rationalizing this, he wondered) was his own funeral. Who had tried to convince him that Sherlock Holmes had told him a lie? His mind was racing- Harmony had once again proven that he hadn't gotten tired of a good mystery yet.

As soon as the older man turned and began to limp away, Sherlock started forward, eager to see the headstone, to look at the date- His scarf tightened around his neck, held onto by a woman. He turned to face her.

"Harmony," he said slowly. "You were always talking about time-travel, about how sure you were that it was possible, and that all I had to do was wait and see-"

She laughed. "I talked about a lot of things, didn't I?" She gestured at the scarf, and he unhappily moved to tie it back around his eyes.

"Is this because of the things in your life that even I cannot comprehend?"

"You learn fast," she smiled. But they both knew, he wouldn't let it rest. His mind was spinning with the possibilities. And then he remembered the man, and the gravestone.

"So I'm going to die."

"Everybody dies," she responded. A door creaked open slightly, and she walked him out of the sunlight and into a chair. _Damn, she ties a good blindfold_, he cursed, trying to see beneath it.

"But soon, I'm going to die. To save that man. Why do I do that?"

"Because he's your friend." Sherlock frowned.

"You are going to stop using." Sherlock laughed.

"I mean it," she threatened.

"Do I die soon, then? In the next few months?"

"No, no," she said. "I don't know when you die," she lied. "But you will meet him soon. And you need to be prepared. So that you can understand what you need."

"What do I need?"

"Oh, you'll figure it out."

"How? Why?"

"Just because you _will,_ Sherlock. I can't explain." _Time travel was hard_, she thought, _when the other person cannot know._

"Harmony, I'm not an idiot child," he growled. "Stop leading me around like one." _Mentally and physically,_ he thought as she pulled him through what sounded like Baker Street.

She loosened the scarf, and he tugged it roughly down to his neck.

"Who is he? When will I meet him? Is there anyone way I can get of meeting him?"

River smirked slightly. "A mystery even you can't solve!"

"Don't be absurd," he chastised. "I'll find him. They don't sell that many unsightly jumpers for men of his age, and not many veterans would wear them. And he's obviously seeing a therapist if he's friends with me-"

River smiled, and put a finger to his lips. "I'll tell you everything," she lied easily, easier than she would have liked when it came to the man who had been a good, albeit unusual, friend. "Let's have tea."

Sherlock frowned. _After all this secrecy? _He knew she was up to something, but he saw no aggression in her pose, so he followed her up to his flat.

* * *

The change in the apartment was astonishing. It was as though Sherlock hadn't turned the place upside down just thirty minutes ago, as though he had never lived there at all. _No,_ thought Sherlock. The skull, the harpoon, his violin. _Pretty strong evidence for my residence._

The man Harmony claimed was her husband was bustling about bookshelves, pulling things out at random and pushing them back in even more haphazardly. Wearing half of an apron. Sherlock had a strong desire to punch him.

"Perfect timing," the man smiled. "Just put the kettle on! Rearranging your books, Holmes."

"I can see that," Sherlock said with a growl.

"Putting them in order categorically, and then by usefulness in terms of the subject, and the ones on the middle shelves, here," he pointed at the less crowded shelves in between the ones brimming with volumes, "are crossreferenced with their author and overlap with the subjects below and above."

Sherlock nearly smiled. He couldn't remember why in the world he'd asked Mrs. Hudson to order them alphabetically by author, as it was the most useless system, in his opinion. He shrugged his heavy coat off, hanging it on the back of the door.

"I like the coat," the man said, looking at it closer. "I should get a coat. Coats are cool!"

"I bought it for him, years ago," his wife said. "It trailed down to his ankles at first."

Sherlock wasn't interested in pleasantries. "Sit," he commanded his friend.

"Tea," he asked her husband. Turning his attention back to the woman, "Now tell."

"A few things first." She reached into her pocket, bringing out several folded pieces of paper. The yellow page, ripped from a legal pad, she folded back into her clothes. The rest she tucked into a manila envelope from his desk. She crossed the room, and slipped the envelope into the top inner pocket of his coat. It fit perfectly.

"You didn't bother sealing it," Sherlock noted.

"You won't be able to decode it," she told him.

"Is that a challenge," he questioned, crossing his ankles as he leaned forward.

"No, a statement," she replied.

"I know the principles behind every possible code, and there a few languages I cannot recognize based off written characters," he reminded her.

It was written in Gallifreyan, and she had encoded it several times with her own encryptions. _And_ it was only another series of letters and numbers, yet another code that would respond to a page in her diary, that she hadn't even written yet.

"You're welcome to try," she smiled. "But once you give up, you put it back in that pocket, understand?"

He nodded quickly.

"One day you will be at St. Bart's. You will _know_ you are going to your death. Give the envelope to a woman named Molly Hooper. Have her date it, and mail it to the address above. And then, you will understand what you _need._"

"Molly Hooper? What's she got to do with any of this?"

"I haven't a clue," she responded. "But I intend to find out."

Sherlock sighed. "My turn," he said. "Start with how you know that man is important, and how I watched him at my grave. Your hallucinogenic lipstick isn't that good, I should know."

In the kitchen, the Doctor paled. He knew she had developed that with the 'help of a friend', but he hadn't realized what kind of help she needed. _A test subject,_ he realized. He sighed. He was almost as confused as the poor man sitting opposite River. She was going to be answering a lot of questions today.

"No, it wasn't my lipstick," she said. "Bring us the tea, dear," she called into the next room. The Doctor fished in his pocket, bringing out a small baggie with a single white pill inside. He felt bad about doing this, but River had been very clear. So he crushed it beneath his fingers, and let the powder fall into the second mug. He delivered it to Sherlock's waiting hands, and the first to his wife. Sherlock took a sip.

"I'm waiting, Harmony," he repeated impatiently. "I've been a good sport about all this, but I would like some answers, and I can only imagine the fun I would have finding them myself, and I'm sure you wouldn't like that-" And it suddenly became very hard to keep his head up. He struggled to keep his eyes open, and saw only the face of his old friend, who had changed so much.

"One day you will be at St. Bart's. You will _know_ you are going to your death…"

She repeated her instructions three times before the pill the Doctor had stolen from Torchwood became too strong for Sherlock to resist. _But why?_ He tried to ask. _Why?_

"…What you _need_," she echoed.

"And one more thing-" she said as his eyes finally drooped shut. "Pay close attention to Irene Adler's measurements."

* * *

"So," the Doctor asked, finally breaking the silence that had fallen as they had made their way back to the Tardis.

"What was all that about?"

"Just something I needed to do," she said. "Because I told myself to be sure to do it."

"River, how do you do it? Keep all your timelines in order?"

"A lot of practice," she admitted. "And a lot of good people relying on my ability to do so."

He hugged her tightly. "I'm sorry," he whispered into her ear. "Is there anything we can do? To save him?"

"I'm not sure," she said sadly. "I'll have to investigate more, but I hope so. For his sake, and John's."

"John?"

"His friend. The one I convinced him to live for. So that he can die for him."

"How do you know you convinced him?"

"Because he'll tell me so."

"Wibbly-wobbly?" She nodded. And then he asked, "Who's Irene Adler?"

"A mutual friend," she answered. "She's how I met Sherlock."

"But I thought you met him in high school?" River grinned.

"Wibbly-wobbly," she said.

The Doctor frowned, attempting to put together all the odd pieces of River's life that she mentioned off-handedly, that didn't make sense.

"River," he said slowly. "Just how many regenerations have you had?" And his impossible wife just grinned up at him.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes woke up in the morning, with a pounding headache.

_What have I been up to now?_ He gingerly pulled himself up off his couch, surveying his impossibly clean flat. He would have to thank Mrs. Hudson.

_Maybe I should stop using,_ he considered unhappily. He couldn't keep losing control like this. He had absolutely no idea what he'd been doing for the last twelve hours, though it looked like he'd finally rearranged that damn bookcase.

But if he was going to stop using, he thought,_ I should find my stash, first._ He could just toss it. Though he hated to be wasteful. _Well, maybe-_ He peeked into his most likely hiding location. Nothing but nicotine patches. The second was the same. By the time he reached the third, he was trying to decide if it was Mycroft or his housekeeper, and thus if he should be angry or not. Mycroft's people wouldn't have cleaned so well, though. He decided to take what he could get, and grabbed a patch.

A trip to the yard later- Lestrade had needed further evidence of that garbage man's guilt- Sherlock looked into his unused spare room. Uncleaned. Though it really only needed a light dusting. He should put it to some use. An office maybe? Or he could convert it into a lab, a bit more useful than his kitchen? _Or I could rent it out, _he supposed. He could use some companionship. What had gotten into him? He shut the door slowly, but resolved to give the spare room's use more thought.

* * *

"What do you need?" It was a simple enough question.

But suddenly, Sherlock understood. Understood what he _needed_, as it all came rushing back to him. He had 'needed' a lot he realized, but that wasn't what she had meant. She always did mean more than she said. He was almost angry that she had conditioned him so easily, but a little impressed at the same time.

"You," he told Molly Hooper. He reached into the topmost inner pocket, and pulled out a thin manila envelope.

"I need you to do something for me," he said, searching for a piece of paper. He pulled a piece of paper off a legal pad, and grabbed a pen. He scribbled quickly, as Molly looked on, confused. He stuffed the paper inside the envelope and licked it closed.

"I need you to mail this for me, Molly," he instructed softly. "The day before my funeral, so it's dated correctly, understood?"

Molly looked affronted, and cautiously put her hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock, don't talk like that," the worry plain in her voice. "You're going to be fine-"

He put a finger to her lips, and she was shocked into silence.

"This is very important, Molly Hooper. And you are the only person I trust to do this. Because I know that you will." He put his arm on her shoulder and looked her dead in the eyes.

"I should apologize for the way I treated you, but I haven't got the time to do it properly. But if you don't do this, mail this envelope- I will have treated you so much worse, I would have treated myself much worse. I got what I needed, and now I've got to _do _what's needed."

"But-"

"And so have you. Understood?"

She nodded meekly, and he wrapped his arms around her in the most awkward hug she had ever received. His kissed the top of her head quickly, and turned towards the door, his coat sweeping behind him.

He turned to face her one more time. "And don't tell anyone about this. Not even John. Especially not John." And with that, he closed the door behind him, and started for the stairs. It was the last time she would see him alive.

* * *

Back in her cell, River laid down upon her cot, exhausted. It had been a long day- Though not even 5 minutes later from when she had left, she noted happily, looking at the clock beyond the bars.

She fished in her pocket, and pulled out a piece of yellowed paper.

_hw-_

_ Thank you. I've found what I needed. Thank you._

_-sh_


End file.
